Defining Friendship
by Catslynw
Summary: Sequel to The Great Game…yes, I know, another one, but it will be awesome, I promise! All kidding aside, Sherlock learns what it means to have a real friend, the ups, the downs, the danger and the delight. Giving hostages to fortune is always risky...
1. Chapter 1

Defining Friendship

"_I will burn the heart out of you." – J. Moriarty_

_Author's note: For those of you who do not know, my beta, Eideann, and I are roommates. I'd say flatmates, but we live in a house and, well, we're Americans. To the point, we share a mutual acquaintance, a fair and interesting young lady who was so kind as to introduce us to the fandom of Sherlock. She pushed, we caved, and now we're both hooked. Worse, we were both inspired with far too many ideas for Sherlock fanfic to be contained by our poor, long-suffering brains. Something had to give. Without consulting one another, we both began stories which could be considered tags to The Great Game on the same morning, at roughly the same hour, while located 40.41 miles apart in separate cities. That's 65.0 kilometres for you Brits. Both our stories begin in the hospital, with the same characters in attendance and have extremely similar themes. No one who knows us well would be surprised. The only thing we really argue about in the fandom is which one of us is Holmes and which is Watson. We have yet to reach an agreement. At the moment we are leaning toward my identity as the more socially ept Watson, and hers as the more pedantic Holmes. She sometimes lacks a real world interface. *ahem* Anyway, read and enjoy. If you are Calliope, read, enjoy and then call after you have read __both__ stories! *We didn't warn her we had written these, let alone posted them. We expect squeeing in the near future.* Also, dear readers, we both positively thrive on reviews, and we are highly competitive, so please read and review both our stories, or there may be bloodshed… ours, not yours. Sincerely, your devoted new author, Catslynw. _

_P.S. Eideann's story is entitled, "A Good Man's Friend."_

Chapter 1

Defining Terms

What was a friend? It should have been a simple question. For most people, perhaps it _was_ a simple question, but it left Sherlock Holmes baffled. Was Dr. John Watson his _friend?_ Fingers steepled, grey-blue eyes fixed on the nasal canula that fed extra oxygen to John's brain, Sherlock found that the question had abruptly taken on an unexpected degree of importance.

It was a question. Sherlock answered questions. So why couldn't he answer this one? Part of the trouble was that there were simply too many definitions of the word _friend_. According to dictionary .com, a friend was a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard. Sherlock's lip curled dismissively. Unacceptably vague. That same inept reference also described a friend as one who provides assistance or patronage. Well, John certainly did that to the best of his ability. Though nowhere close to being Sherlock's intellectual equal, the good doctor was of above average intelligence and assisted earnestly, if not always enthusiastically, with the cases undertaken by the world's only consulting detective. Still, Sherlock was certain that particular definition was meant to refer primarily to people who befriended organizations or causes. Prideful as he might be, Sherlock did not think of himself as a cause. So, scratch the second definition.

The website went on to describe a friend as someone with whom a person was on good terms or not hostile. Utterly useless. _Good terms_ required defining of its own. As for hostile… John frequently reacted in a hostile manner to Sherlock's perfectly rational actions. Why a doctor of all people should have reacted so negatively to finding a dead man's intestines decomposing in the bath was beyond him. It was a scientific enquiry, one that would ultimately help to solve cases. Yet John had wagged on and on about it, blistering Sherlock's ears for four minutes and forty-three seconds. After that, things had been blissfully silent, but Sherlock had been startled the next day to discover that John was still angered. He had, according to Mrs. Hudson, been giving Sherlock the silent treatment. Sherlock hadn't noticed. Pointing this out, in hopes of saving both John and himself future confusion and needless expenditure of energy on pointless emotional scenes, had only seemed to make the doctor angrier. It was all very perplexing.

In other circumstances, Sherlock might simply have overcome his own dislike of anything that smacked of emotional intimacy and asked John outright if he was his friend. At the moment, however, that was impossible. Whatever Moriarty had lined the vest with – the vest he'd bound John into – it had not been the Semtex he'd used with the previous hostages. Though Sherlock could not smell Semtex the way a dog might, he could calculate blast ratios quite effectively, and if the amount of Semtex that the vest appeared to carry had been real, he, John and Moriarty would all have been obliterated when the vest exploded. However, while the final blast at the pool might have been weak compared to what it could have been, it had still been powerful enough to leave John badly injured. The doctor had only briefly regained consciousness since the explosion, and Sherlock had not been allowed to see him before John was summarily sedated by some "well meaning" but no doubt inept locum who believed that the doctor's injures required intubation. This decision had subsequently been supported by an undeniably more experienced surgeon, Dr. Pepperidge, who reminded Sherlock of John in many ways. The man exuded military competence and was everything that John himself might have become had his war wound not left him with nerve damage and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. Difficult to do surgery with shaking fingers.

Dr. Pepperidge had treated John's injuries: three cracked ribs, two badly broken ribs resulting in flail chest – a condition that killed half of the people who suffered from it – contusions, abrasions, first-degree burns to his left hand and jaw, assorted other minor problems, multiple marks from a stun gun, proving that John had not gone quietly when Moriarty's henchmen took him. It was the flail chest that had filled Sherlock with a brief, blind panic, but John's case had been declared not serious by the surgeon, and the intubation had ended some hours ago. Sedation was being continued as a form of pain management that would allow them to avoid the use of the more traditional narcotics which did not mix well with flail chest. Sherlock had tried to argue with Dr. Pepperidge about it, desperately wanting to speak with John, but it was pointed out to him in scathing tones that he had no medical rights whatsoever where Dr. Watson was concerned. Harriet Watson held John's medical proxy, a fact that utterly appalled Sherlock and which he intended to alter the moment John was lucid enough to sign the necessary paperwork. Happily, Harriet, most likely too gattered to find let alone answer her cell phone, had not responded the hospital's calls, so the surgeon was at least determining his treatment based on his own considerable skills and not the hysterical and selfish choices of an inconvenienced "loved one." Should Harriet show up at some point, Sherlock feared he would have to call in a favor from his ally of last resort, Mycroft. It would humble him, but he would do it for John's sake. Or… perhaps he could simply have Lestrade arrest her if she arrived at the hospital even slightly inebriated. Lestrade liked and respected Watson, so it wouldn't even have to be presented as a favor for Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned smugly, but the smile quickly faded as he continued to watch John's chest rise and fall, a slight hitch in his breathing indicating pain that even the sedation could not entirely suppress. It was so damned unfair. Unlike John, Sherlock had literally walked away with nothing more than a concussion and assorted lacerations and contusions. Moriarty, the utter bastard, had vanished entirely without being so good as to leave so much as a blood sample behind. A considerate villain might have left a limb for him to gloat over and experiment upon. But no… no. All Moriarty had left was… John, battered, bloody and barely breathing.

"I can stop John Watson, too," Moriarty had bragged, using an unwilling, but choiceless John to do it. "Stop his heart." And stop it he had, for exactly ninety-six seconds. The paramedics had quickly enticed the organ to resume beating, but that ninety-six seconds had been, subjectively, the longest in Sherlock's life. Fighting off his own overly solicitous attendants and dodging orange shock blankets, he'd clung stubbornly to John's side throughout the ambulance ride, only allowing himself to be shunted aside when they actually wheeled the other man into surgery.

At the point, the medical staff had descended on Sherlock like the vultures they were, poking, prodding and pestering him with pointless questions. Then, the waiting had begun. Sherlock had wanted to go haring off after Moriarty, to find and _end_ the villain for damaging John in this way, but something had stopped him from leaving the hospital… and it wasn't Mycroft's imbecilic guards no matter what his brother might think. If Sherlock had been determined to go in pursuit of Moriarty, nothing that his officious brother could have done would have stopped him, certainly not a trio of mental deficients with tasers. The question was moot as Sherlock had no intention of leaving. The matter was not irrelevant, however, as _why _Sherlock was not leaving had a direct bearing on his current preoccupation with the question of friendship.

In the course of his machinations, Moriarty had threatened scores of hapless civilians and had killed at least a baker's dozen. None of those deaths had impinged on Sherlock in any particular way except to irritate him as a sign that he had yet to defeat the self-proclaimed criminal mastermind. He had been annoyed, frustrated and intrigued, but he had not been particularly angry. Not before. Not until Moriarty had taken Dr. Watson, had dared to use Sherlock's… flatmate as the final hostage in his great game. Sherlock's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he remembered the look on John's face when Moriarty had toyed with him, making him say things designed to embarrass any man with an ounce of dignity. It was maddening.

It was that very anger which had forced this mental self-evaluation on Sherlock. The instant rage on John's behalf, the… fear when he believed that John might be killed as some of the other hostages had been killed, all of it left him with the very profound and difficult question of what constituted a friend.

Though it galled him to even consider the thought, Sherlock could not help wondering what Moriarty knew that he did not. When making his penultimate threat, the consulting criminal had promised not to kill Sherlock, but to burn him. More specifically, he'd promised to, 'burn the heart out," of him. Sherlock had countered automatically that he had no heart, though he must possess one in a strictly literal sense. It was in the emotional sense, in the realm of _feeling _that other's viewed him as impaired and claimed he did not possess a heart at all. Over the years, Sherlock had come to agree with the masses on this one subject. Besides, it was really of very little importance to him. What did he need with a heart, after all? As a high functioning sociopath, he lacked empathy, but this seemed to him to be a boon to his work rather than a hinderance. How could he concentrate on solving the puzzles that crime presented him if he were preoccupied with the emotional and physical well-being of the very people he was trying to save?

And yet… yet… Moriarty seemed to believe that he had found Sherlock's heart, found that spark of empathy that had been missing for all of his thirty-three years. There could be little doubt that Moriarty meant –

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he heard the door to the private hospital room open behind him. The man who entered was whisper quiet, his hand-stitched Oxford's making almost no noise as he glided across the industrial linoleum, but a whiff of cologne and a hint of hand cream identified him as readily as a retinal scan, and there was no need to turn around.

"Have your lackey's found him yet?" Sherlock demanded without prelude, not taking his eyes from John's pale face.

"No. He has disappeared from London most effectively," Mycroft replied, his accents even and untroubled sounding as always. "Really, I am quite put out with the gentlemen I had on your surveillance detail. They should have focused on capturing Moriarty rather than stopping to fish you out of the pool."

"I couldn't agree more," Sherlock said, remembering all too clearly the rush of air that knocked him backwards, the impact of his head striking the side of the pool, the water that closed so quickly over him, making his lungs burn. Worse, he could recall in vivid detail, concussion or no, the moment when he was dragged back to the surface and opened his eyes to see, through a haze of chlorinated water and smoke, John laying unmoving against the wall, shattered glass and plaster scattered about him, one long metal beam resting atop his torso, pinning him to the concrete. He hadn't needed Mycroft's minion to help boost him out of the pool. He'd practically levitated out of it in his rush to reach John. It was his fault that John was involved in the Moriarty mess, his fault that John was injured. He'd pulled the damnable trigger himself.

So what _was_ it that he felt? Responsibility or regard? Intellectual interest or emotional attachment?

He needed data. He couldn't solve a puzzle without data, but that blather off the internet was useless. He couldn't ask John. He couldn't even ask Moriarty. And to ask an ordinary person… people were so disorganized, so imprecise, so irrational.

Twinging, knowing what he had to do, Sherlock ground his teeth. Really, there was no point in putting it off and no one else to ask. Annoying as he was, Sherlock's brother was capable of rational thought upon occasion, and he'd always been able to explain the idiosyncrasies or _normal_ people in a way that Sherlock could almost comprehend.

Swallowing his pride – and lord, what a mouthful – Sherlock blurted out, "Mycroft, have you ever had a friend?"

"That is an unexpectedly personal question from you, little brother."

"Well?" Sherlock pressed impatiently.

"I suppose the answer to that question depends entirely on what you mean by friend," Mycroft temporized, sauntering into view, the umbrella twirling carelessly in his long fingers. "Define your terms, Sherlock. If Mummy told you once, she told you a million times to define your terms."

"Eight hundred forty seven," he corrected. "She also told us to be precise."

"I was not always present when Mummy admonished you for your tendency to leap to faulty conclusions due to the imprecision of your variables. I can hardly be expected to know the exact number of times she said it."

"Yes, you can," Sherlock snapped irritably.

Mycroft sang a soft hmm. "Yes, I suppose I can."

"Yet you use a generalization like 'millions' and then lecture me on impression."

"Hyperbole, Sherlock. It's a form of communication that ordinary people seem to find reassuring. Too much precision unsettles them."

"I am not an ordinary person."

"No, of course not."

"So be precise if you please, and answer the question."

"As soon as you define your terms."

"I am… uncertain how to do so."

"Well, what sort of friend are you referring to?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in some surprise. "There's more than one kind?"

"Surely you know that? You must have made some study of interpersonal relations for the sake of your detecting if nothing else."

"I have confined my studies to amorous relationships. They have a far greater tendency to lead to crime, and especially to murder."

"I see," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps in that area I can assist you. To begin with there are varying degrees of connection that one person may have with another, of which friendship and amorous entanglements are only two. There is _association_, which is – "

"Stick to the forms of friendship, if you please. I don't have all year to figure this out."

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft rebuked, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "You have always been so impatient."

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, entirely too aware that he sounded like an angry, whiny child. Was he to be spared no indignity today?

"Oh, very well," his elder brother said with what he viewed to be an unnecessarily dramatic sigh. Then, folding his hands in his lap and assuming an air of resigned authority, Mycroft began. "All friendships, regardless of type, share certain common elements. Empathy and compassion, for one, the tendency to wish the best for the other party, mutual understanding and enjoyment of one another's company, reciprocity, trust and, finally, honesty – including the right to speak unpleasant truths that would never be tolerated from a mere associate, co-worker or family member."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ironic lilt with which Mycroft said _family member_. Honestly, not everything was about Mycroft. The world revolved around the sun, apparently, and not his brother, though Mycroft's ego was certainly of sufficient magnitude to create the requisite gravity well. "Go on."

"In ancient Rome, trust was considered the single most important hallmark of a friendship. According to Cicero – "

Sherlock snapped his fingers rapidly and repeatedly at Mycroft. "Quicker, shorter and skip the entire Roman period."

"According to Cicero," Mycroft repeated emphatically, otherwise entirely ignoring Sherlock's interjection, and earning a growl from his younger brother, "friendship could not exist without utter truth, honesty and trust. Cicero believed that all evil in the world stemmed from ignorance, so a real friend would always be entirely honest and speak the truth, no matter how painful that truth might be. If a man were about to commit an evil action through ignorance, it was the friend's responsibility to enlighten him and prevent him from damaging his honor through an unworthy act. Friendship would, therefore, only end if one party, ignoring the other's counsel, continued to act on ignorance and chose the path of evil."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock said desperately, now not even trying to keep the pleading tone from his voice. That Cicero business was ridiculous, utterly irrelevant… and it hit entirely too close to home. He remembered a moment from his first case with John, the one that his flatmate had so ludicrously dubbed A Study in Pink. Sherlock had said… something. He couldn't quite remember what, but his pronouncement had been met with a resounding silence and the appalled stares of several Pcs and DIs. Acting on an instinct he hadn't stopped to question, he had turned to John – a man he'd known less than two days – and said, "Not good?" Fixing him with an uncomfortable but thoughtful look, John had replied, "Bit not good, yeah." How had John become the standard by which Sherlock measured right and wrong so quickly? Did that mean they _were _friends, or at least that they would have been friends in ancient Rome. Damn, Mycroft!

Entirely unaware of his damnation, though undoubtedly aware of his brother's frustration, Mycroft had gone on. "—but that, of course, has little bearing on your relationship with Dr. Watson, since the Russian tradition of referring to every man by his given name and patronymic does not pertain in Britain."

"What?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"You are paying attention, aren't you?" Mycroft demanded. "My time is valuable, and I have no wish to waste it if you aren't going to attend."

"Yes, yes, do go on.'

"In many Asian cultures, friendship is considered a state in which two men, being equal in position, intelligence and other important regards, nevertheless respect one another in a manner they would normally reserve for someone of superior status."

"John isn't my equal," Sherlock said when his brother paused for a breath. Mycroft frowned at him disapprovingly, and Sherlock hastened to add, "In intellect. He is not my equal in intellect. Few people are, and I don't like _any_ of them." Mycroft's frown deepened, his eyes narrowing disapprovingly.

"Dr. Watson may not be your equal in intellect," Mycroft said censoriously, "but he is your superior in a number of other areas."

Sherlock shrugged, not disputing the point.

Still eyeing Sherlock critically, Mycroft said, "In the modern, Western world, friendship has been broken down into a number of overlapping categories. There is the acquaintance, the mate, the pal, the bro, the frenemy, the drinking buddy, the best friend, the BFF, the – "

"The what?" Sherlock interrupted, his attention caught. "What is a BFF?"  
"I believe the acronym has two meanings, Best Friends Forever and Best Female Friend. In both cases, it is a term used by women or young girls to refer to their closest and oldest female friends."

"Oh," Sherlock said, feeling faintly disconcerted and not certain why. "I somehow don't think that applies here."

"Perhaps not," Mycroft agreed. "Now, as I was saying, there are a great many ways to categorize friendship. The terminology is forever changing. For example, there are a host of ways to describe friendships which exist only or primarily online. There is the Friend's List, the Buddy List, the chatroom – "

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"Yes, I quite agree."

"None of this is helping! None of it tells me what makes someone a friend! The closest you've come was that ancient Roman nonsense!"

"Do lower your voice, Sherlock. You may wake Dr. Watson."

"How? He's wankered!"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "Sherlock, really, your language. Mummy would never have approved. Besides, it is not, strictly speaking, true. Dr. Watson is sedated. What you are implying – "

"Damn what I'm implying," Sherlock hissed. "Mycroft, I have to understand what's happening here. Moriarty targeted John because of me. I need to understand why. I need to understand what Moriarty _saw_ when he looked at us and whether it's going to continue to put John in mortal danger. I need more data, but nothing you're telling me is to the point."

"Perhaps if you could be more specific in your questions…" Mycroft trailed off, fixing Sherlock with an encouraging look.

"I asked if you'd ever had a friend."

"Yes?"

"You have?"

"I've had many friends of varying types."

"Have you ever had one who was willing to die for you?"

Mycroft's brows rose abruptly. "Does a bodyguard count?" he asked, sounding startled. In any other circumstance, Sherlock would have been delighted to have caught his smug elder brother so entirely off his guard, but he had no time for that now. He had no _time._

"No. Someone who's been hired for the purpose is well outside the definition of a friend. Even I know that."

"Then, no," Mycroft said slowly. "I have not had a friend of that sort. Is that how _you_ define a friend, then, Sherlock? Someone who is willing to die for you? I must say, it's a rather narrow definition."

"I prefer to think of it as precise," Sherlock countered.

"And based on that definition of your terms, you have come to what conclusion?"

"That John Watson is my… friend," Sherlock said, a shade uncertainly.

"You didn't think so before?"

"I told you I lack a clear understanding of what constitutes a friend. It makes it difficult at times to understand John's behavior… and my own."

"Why did you suppose that he's been chasing about after you all over London if he was not your friend?" Mycroft asked, clearly exasperated.

"He might have been curious about me or interested in the crimes themselves. He was a soldier, and he may have felt some obligation to _protect_ the innocent by assisting me in apprehending criminals, or he may have simply needed something… anything… to take his mind off of Afghanistan."

"So," Mycroft drawled, "morbidly curious, unwillingly obligated, exceptionally bored or extraordinarily desperate. I must say, your reading of his motivations is less than flattering to either him or you."

"Flattery does not interest me."

Mycroft snorted delicately. "Give me leave to doubt that."

Bristling, Sherlock leapt up from his chair and walked over to the bed where John slept on. He hoped devoutly that his flatmate… his friend… was not trapped in some dreadful nightmare about the war again. He'd certainly had a number of such dreams after moving into 221b, though they'd seemed lately to be tapering off.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said hesitantly, but Sherlock ignored him. "Sherlock!" Mycroft repeated more insistently, and Sherlock turned with disgusted flourish.

"What do – " he started, but broke off when he saw his elder brother staring down at a small red dot of light floating in the centre of Mycroft's chest.

tbc

_Author's note: You can blame the cliffhanger (in both stories) on Calliope. She neglected to tell either of us that The Great Game ended in a cliffhanger. Yes, we are holding a grudge. Series two can't come soon enough. Now, quit reading and REVIEW! We shall be posting in tandem hence forward, btw._

_P.S. For those of you who read our Supernatural fanfic, we are both still actively working on our stories. Do not panic!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Authors' note: There is bound to be considerably less parallelism here on in. We will continue to write together, and we will continue to post in tandem, though you will undoubtedly notice startlingly familiar ideas bouncing back and forth between the stories from chapter to chapter. Flatmates of more than fifteen years do grow to think somewhat alike. As always, reviews are love, so please let us know what you think._

Chapter 2

Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in the glittering red dot on Mycroft's chest, then he turned and dove for John's bed. He slammed into the edge of it as hard as he could, using his hip and thigh to lever the bed across the lino floor. It wouldn't budge, and Sherlock dropped to his knees to take off the handbrakes. Behind him, he could hear Mycroft moving just as swiftly, could hear the distinctive sound of shoes skidding to a halt and then switching direction. Whatever was happening with his brother, Sherlock didn't have time to help. With the brakes finally off, he gave the bed an almighty shove with his shoulder, slowly sliding it across the floor and into the corner, knocking aside chairs, and equipment as he went, but he didn't stop until it was jammed into a corner, as far out of window's line of sight as he could get it. John, jostled about, groaned in his drug-induced sleep. Rising to his feet, Sherlock gave his flatmate a quick once-over with his eyes, no signs of renewed bleeding, still wan and grey-looking, but he seemed to be breathing well enough. Reassured – if not satisfied – he turned back to the rest of the room. Mycroft was not visible anywhere, but the red dot danced across the floor, seeking a target.

Sherlock, backed into the corner with John, was about to sing out for his brother when a sister, no doubt drawn by the noise, appeared in the doorway. "What's going – " She broke off with a scream as two more red dots appeared on the floor, both streaking toward her. She vanished, yelling for help, and Sherlock tuned her and the rest of the ward out as best he could, though his mind couldn't resist one entirely irrelevant observation: she's cheating on her diet again.

"Mycroft?" he hissed.

"Not now my boy," Mycroft said, his urbane voice coming from the en suite loo. He'd clearly been unable to make it to the exit and had ducked into the water closet as the next best option. "Anthea, send the team to my location immediately," his brother continued, obviously speaking into his mobile. "Possible snipers, threat imminent." Then a moment later, Mycroft called, "Is John all right?"  
Sherlock looked back at the bed. John's breathing was slow and steady and he showed no signs of waking. The drip stand was still standing and still plugged into the wall, though the flex was fully extended. One of the red dots hovered by the foot of his bed, seemingly unable to reach its target even if it knew where that target was. The skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades itched. How thick were the walls here? How powerful were the rifles that Moriarty – it _had_ to be Moriarty – had trained on this room? Did they have infrared scopes? What were their orders? Bollox! He needed data!

He scanned the room trying to observe what he could. One light at the foot of John's bed, another by the door to the loo and a third making slow circles on the lino in the centre of the room. Assumption: the snipers knew where each of them was. Fact: the lights were only targeting John and Mycroft. Conclusion: the snipers were not after him, only the people he… damn it! The commotion in the hall outside was growing. Sherlock could hear sirens in the distance, getting steadily nearer. Time squeaked by. He considered leaving the relative safety of his corner, he wanted to be out there, looking for the snipers, but just because they weren't targeting him in particular, didn't mean they wouldn't shoot him. Worse, a ricochet might hit John… or Mycroft… or some innocent bystander. Damn, damn, damn! He clung to his corner, senses strained to their limits for the least suspicious sound, slightest fraction of movement. He waited and watched John breathe.

Where was Moriarty? What did he want? This wasn't like him. There should be demands and phone calls, cryptic messages and posturing threats, not this… silence. Sherlock couldn't even call the man to demand answers because the police, in their infinite wisdom, had taken his pink phone as evidence, along with his clothing. Lestrade swore Sherlock would get his coat back – it was expensive and a gift from Mummy, after all – but the phone was what mattered and it was out of reach. Then he remembered. Mrs. Hudson! That darling, beautiful, inspired woman! When she'd brought Sherlock a set of clean clothes, she'd brought his own mobile along with his pants and trousers. Pulling the phone from his pocket, Sherlock called up his blog, "The Science of Deduction," and rapidly typed in a new post.

M,

WHERE ARE YOU?

VERY BORED.

SH

There. That should catch Moriarty's attention. Now if only the consulting criminal would answer. His fingers drummed the air in impatience as he waited for a response, but he didn't have to wait long. His phone beeped, notifying him that he'd received a new email message, forwarded from his blog.

SH,

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW. DO GIVE THE TIN MAN AND THE COWARDLY LION MY REGARDS.

M

P.S. BEST PLUG JOHNNY BOY'S IV BACK IN BEFORE THE BATTERY RUNS DOWN. IT'S JUST COME LOOSE. WOULDN'T WANT HIM TO SUFFER… POINTLESSLY.

Sherlock's head snapped up, his gaze darting to the wall outlet where the flex had, in fact, come loose. Cursing, he walked straight across, moved the drip stand a fraction of a foot closer, and plugged it back in. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mycroft demanded from the loo. Get back in the corner."

"He's not going to shoot _me_," Sherlock grumbled, marching back to John's bedside any roads.

"You can't know what he'll do. He's unhinged."

"He's a clever – " Sherlock began heatedly.

"Is everyone all right in there?" It was Lestrade. From his vantage point in the corner, Sherlock could see the DI squatting in the hallway outside, just to the side of the door. He was wearing a bullet-resistant vest and a ballistic helmet.

The detective inspector leaned a little further around the door frame, and Sherlock snapped out, "Do get back, Lestrade. Surely, even you know that there's no such thing as bullet _proof_ armor. You'd best remain where you are."

"Damn it, Sherlock! Is everyone all right or not?"

"Physically, we are quite well, Detective Inspector," Mycroft interjected. "However, if you would so good as to see to our uninvited guest, we should certainly prefer it."

Sherlock couldn't restrain a smile quirk of his lips as Lestrade visibly rolled his eyes as this imperious request. "ARV's on its way," the DI said, "AFO's should be here any second."

"Simply, marvelous," Sherlock muttered. "The cowboys are coming. As if things weren't enough of a shambles already."

"Excellent," Mycroft said, speaking over the top of him, before adding, "Do remember, Inspector, that Mr. Moriarty is a bomber, and see to evacuating the hospital."

"Already underway," Lestrade confirmed, "Starting with this floor."

"Do you even know where the gunmen are?" Sherlock bellowed. "An evacuation could end in a shooting gallery. Fish in a barrel!"

"Let me worry about that," Lestrade said. "Now, has Moriarty contacted you this time?"

"Not precisely," he temporized.

"Sherlock!"

"I contacted him… on my blog. He's definitely watching."

Lestrade said something – no doubt profane – in response to this, but Sherlock couldn't quite make out what over the commotion from the ward beyond the door. Time crawled by, the combination of danger, tension and boredom leaving Sherlock feeling as if he were going to come out of his own skin. Why was Moriarty fannying around this way? Frustrated and impatient, Sherlock began to type a new post on his blog, only to have the message, "403 Forbidden," pop up instead. He stared at the screen for a moment, dumbfounded, then – "Bugger! Mycroft, get your interfering mitts off my blog!"

"And allow you to antagonize and taunt an already unstable individual who may or may not intend to shoot us all? I think not. Besides, Anthea is attempting to trace him. You'll obstruct her efforts."

"Her efforts! Mycroft, I am perfectly capable of – " Sherlock broke off as John groaned softly, his left hand twitching on top of the blankets, his brow furrowed. Without thinking, Sherlock reached out and touched the back of John's hand with his own. "It's all right," he said more quietly. "We're all right. Rest." Gradually, the lines smoothed out of John's face and his breathing deepened again. The moment he was confident that his flatmate was back under, Sherlock began typing a blistering text meant for Mycroft, but he stopped when new voices joined Lestrade's at the door. No doubt the cowboys had arrived. Sherlock's fingers resumed drumming the air as Lestrade consulted in hushed tones with the ranking AFO. The rest of the ward had grown rather quiet, and Sherlock deduced that the evacuation had cleared the immediate vicinity. Another familiar voice drifted to his ears and he flinched. Sally Donovan. Bloody Sally Donovan. Of course she was here, as if things weren't bad enough.

It was four minutes and twenty-eight seconds before Lestrade addressed the occupants of the room again. "Mr. Holmes," the DI called, "We're going to get you out first as you're closest to the door. Sergeant Kendal and his men are going to come in and get you properly suited up. Then they'll walk you back out."

"I understand completely, Detective Inspector. Proceed."

Sherlock ground his teeth, watching in frustration as two men entered the room behind a wheeled, Sarkar ballistic shield and then backed their way into the loo, the red dot spasming after them, as if in frustration. Mere seconds later they emerged, backing out of the loo with Mycroft carefully positioned behind the ballistic shield, a bullet-resistant vest thoroughly crushing his Henry Poole suit, his T Fox Umbrella clutched in one manicured hand. Sherlock caught his eyes for just a moment. Mycroft's gaze was stern and remonstrative, as if Sherlock were actively doing something to annoy him when he was just standing there, waiting to be rescued like some mundane, good little hostage. Sherlock scowled back at his brother until Mycroft vanished from view. The moment he was through the door, the red dot that had followed him joined the one at the foot of John's bed. The implication was clear.

"All right, Sherlock. Your turn," Lestrade called.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glanced down at John, saying nothing. This time, two ballistic shields entered the room, first one and then the other, a third man following behind, two more of the bullet-resistant vests held in front of him. The moment they reached the corner when Sherlock had tucked John away, the man with the vests – Sherlock judged him to be the aforementioned Sergeant Kendal – handed one vest off to Sherlock and turned to place the second on John. Swatting away the helping hands of the other AFOs, Sherlock grabbed Kendal by the arm. "Stop Sergeant."

"Mr. Holmes, my men will – "

"Damn your men, you're not putting that on John," Sherlock said emphatically.

"Moorehead, get him out of here," the Sergeant ordered, but brushing the other men aside, Sherlock grabbed the vest he was attempting to fit onto John and tossed it summarily across the room.

"What the devil are you – "

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Lestrade barked. "You need to let them do their job."  
"So I should let them kill John?" he shot back angrily. Then, turning to the sergeant, he pointed emphatically at his flatmate's chest. "Dr. Watson has flail chest which means that, in this case, two of his ribs are floating free, ready to puncture lungs, heart or other vital organs. If he is struck in the torso by a bullet, even one whose impact is redistributed by the woven fibers of a bullet-resistant vest, the force of the impact will kill him."

"You can't know that for certain, and – "

"I can and do know that," Sherlock snapped. "What is more, the constrictive nature of the vest will impair his breathing and could be enough, in and of itself, to move his broken ribs and cause him serious injury. He cannot wear a vest."

"Listen to him," Lestrade called out. "If he says it's so, it's so."

"Bloody…" Kendal began, then shook his head. "Okay. Fine, you win. Now, let us get your vest on, unless you're hiding some detrimental medical problem?"

"No, but Moorehead is. I judge him to be suffering from a serious thyroid condition. He should be seen by a doctor immediately."

Kendal gaped at him for a moment, then grabbed Sherlock roughly by one arm and all but forced him into a vest, muttering darkly the entire time. The moment the vest was properly seated and fastened, Sherlock eeled out of Kendal's grasp and moved closer to the bed.

"Now, go get John's doctor. His name is Pepperidge. Suit him up and bring him back to see about getting John out of here."

"We will, Mr. Holmes, just as soon as – "

"I am not leaving without John."

"Mr. Holmes – "

"Damn it, Sherlock! This is no time to play the sodding hero!" Lestrade shouted from the hall.

"I am not playing, and I am not leaving. If you attempt to force me, there will be a fight and your men will undoubtedly be exposed to sniper fire," he explained in his most reasonable _I am explaining the obvious to Carl Anderson_ tones. "Now go."

The sergeant, stymied, looked back toward the door. "Just do what he says," Lestrade called. "He can and will be impossible otherwise."

Leaving one of the ballistic shields behind, and, after instructing Sherlock to stay behind it in words that no proper Englishman should ever use, Sergeant Kendal and his men left. The shield was a mere five feet high, and Sherlock crouched behind it, protecting his head. An intact torso would do him little good if his brains were blown all over the wainscotting. His phone beeped at him, and looking down, Sherlock saw that he had a text. His heart leapt for a moment with excitement, but it was only from Mycroft.

AS SAFE AS I CAN BE. YOU MOVED INSTINCTIVELY TO SAVE JOHN AND NOT ME. YOUR QUESTION IS ANSWERED, LITTLE BROTHER. THAT IS A FRIEND.

MYCROFT HOLMES

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Bloody Mycroft. He always had to have the last word.

Lestrade watched in growing exasperation as the AFOs emerged from the hospital room with neither Sherlock nor John Watson. The sergeant looked at him and shrugged helplessly. "Not sure how to safely move the patient. The other one's right about that. We need his doctor." Lestrade nodded, but before he could even raise his radio to his lips, an aggravated voice chimed in behind him.

"That's what I've been trying to tell this… this _woman_, but she won't bloody listen to me!" The DI turned to see Donovan, with the help of uniformed constable, trying to hold back an older gentleman in a lab coat about fifteen yards down the hall.

Trotting over to them, he said, "Who are you?"

"Pepperidge," the man replied. "I need to see my patient. Right now. You can't keep me out. You'll kill him if you handle him wrongly."

Lestrade looked at the man's photo identification where it hung from a clip on his pocket. "Lionel Pepperidge, BMBS." The picture showed a slightly younger, slightly less hoary-headed bloke, but it was unmistakably the same man.

"Right then. You're with me," Lestrade said, taking Pepperidge by the arm and walking him rapidly toward Watson's room. "Has anyone explained the situation?"

"I was told there was a bomb threat," the doctor said, staring at the AFOs gathered outside room 111 with wide, alarmed eyes. "They said you were evacuating this entire floor."

"It's not precisely a bomb threat," the DI corrected. "Dr. Watson and a… friend are pinned down in there. There are laser sights trained on the room. No shots have been fired yet, but it could happen at any time. We need to get them out."

"Moving him – " the doctor began quickly.

"Is the only option," Lestrade finished for him. "It has to be done."

"Fine," he agreed, bracing himself, "but I have to do it."

"Sir, the danger is real. The man doing this has already killed more than a dozen people."

"Then let's not add my patient to the tally." He jerked his chin at the AFOs. "Give me a vest and few of those strapping young fellows, and I'll get Dr. Watson out."

Lestrade looked at Pepperidge long and hard, trying to take the measure of the man as Sherlock so often took the measure of a crime scene, finding truth in small details. "All right," he said at last. "God help you, but all right." Turning, he called, "Kendal!"

"Yes, Inspector?" the sergeant said, hurrying over.

"Get Mr. Pepperidge suited up and take him in to retrieve Dr. Watson. You are to take his medical instructions as direct orders. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I'll also need a collapsible trolley from the A&E with a LSB," Pepperidge added. "Then I'll need access to the imaging lab to be certain no additional damage has been done."

"Wait, what's an LSB?"

"Long spine board," the surgeon explained. At Lestrade's look of incomprehension, he said, "Backboard. A backboard, like they use in ambulances. There should be some in the A&E with the trolleys."

"Got it," Lestrade said. Then pulling his radio, he called down to the constables working the ground floor, giving instructions for them to get the needed equipment from one of the nurses and send it up immediately. He sent Donovan on to hustle them along. Then, while the AFOs got Pepperidge suited up, Lestrade went back to the door of room 111. "Sherlock, we're sending in someone who can get Dr. Watson out. Just sit tight."

"Where would I go?" Sherlock replied acerbically. Lestrade couldn't see his consultant at the moment, but there was a faint beeping sound coming from the room… a very non-medical sound.

"For the love of St. Michael, who are you texting now?" Lestrade shouted. The only answer to this was a resounding silence, and shaking his head, Lestrade went to join Donovan, who was just returning. The DS gave him a quick status update on the progress of the emergency response team. The bomb squad had only just begun its search for explosives, but it was hard to know where for them to begin in a two-hundred-seventy-year-old hospital with nearly seven hundred patient beds. Did they start with the area nearest Dr. Watson's room, or in the areas of the facility most often frequented by the public? Thankfully, answering that impossible question wasn't his problem. That mess he'd leave to the experts.

Even the evacuation of the north tower of London Royal Hospital, including the premiere trauma center that had saved Dr. Watson's life after the explosion, had been passed over his head to a chief inspector, and that was just fine with Lestrade – it left him free to manage the overall investigation into Sherlock's mad bomber, Moriarty, and the snipers currently holding Dr. Watson and Sherlock pinned down. Anderson and his team were still at the Haverstock Public Pool, sifting through the rubble. There had been no sign of Moriarty's body, and from the looks of things, there wouldn't be. Somehow the daft bastard had slipped away. Whether he'd been injured or not, Lestrade couldn't say, and that was one of the questions he wanted Anderson to answer. He'd placed a call to the tech not thirty minutes before just to emphasize just how crucial it was that they find DNA evidence that could conclusively link to Moriarty, preferably attached to a large puddle of blood.

Donovan had come back from her mission with not one but two nurses and all of the equipment that Pepperidge had asked for. Unfortunately, she also came back with word that the bomb squad hadn't cleared any of the imaging labs. The very radioactive nature of the materials contained in those labs made them especially dangerous targets for any kind of terrorism, and the squad was being pedantic about the whole thing. Incoming emergencies were being routed to other hospitals. Patients with appointments for examinations were just piss out of luck. "I chewed on them for awhile, and they unbent enough to send someone in for one of the portable units. They're sending it up," Donovan put in, clearly pleased with herself and deservedly so. "Toff from the lab came back inside to set it up when he heard it was for Pepperidge. Guess he's the second coming round here."

"Where?"

"Empty staff room on this floor currently being rapidly disinfected. No exterior windows, limited access and well away from any probable hazards," Donovan supplied. "Freak still in there?" she asked, inclining her head toward room 111.

"Yes."

"Why'd he stay?" she challenged, though who she was challenging Lestrade wasn't certain. "Why isn't he bouncing all over London, chasing this blighter down? That's what he gets off on."  
Lestrade narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and did not answer. In truth, he wasn't certain himself and he doubted Sherlock was either.

A short time later, Lestrade and Donovan both watched from just down the hall as no less than three ballistic shields entered Dr. Watson's hospital room trailing a trolley with backboard, Pepperidge and two more stout blokes in body armor. Nothing could be heard for a while after that except for the men moving about and Pepperidge barking out orders which were, presumably, obeyed. Then, just when Lestrade thought everything was going to go smoothly for once, he heard Sherlock's voice rise above the rest.

"Are these level III or level IV ballistic shields?" Sherlock demanded.

"What? How do you – " That sounded like Kendal.

"Level III or level IV?" Sherlock repeated, enunciating sharply, in a tone that added, more clearly than words, _truly, the sergeant must be impaired in some fashion._

"Why in the bloody hell – "

"Level III hardly seems adequate given that we do not know what kind of – "

"Shut it, Holmes!" Pepperidge barked. For a wonder, the consulting detective apparently did… shut it.

Lestrade spared a glance for Donovan and saw her shaking her head in disgust. "Freak," she muttered, by no means under her breath.

Moments later, Pepperidge and his two helpers exited room 111, Dr. Watson on the trolley between them. Sherlock followed quickly after, but Lestrade didn't breathe a sigh of relief until all the AFOs were out as well. Then he considered how short-lived his relief might be. Just what would this madman do now that his favorite targets were out of range?vccc If a bomb was going to be detonated, this was the moment.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Despite a dreadful disease ravaging our household (also known as the really annoying case of multi-person seasonal head congestion) we have persevered to write yet another chapter each. Again we wrote largely independently, again we wound up with interesting and unexpected parallels._

_Another parallel between our lives and those of our characters has come to mind. John is methodical, he plans, he works things out in advance and then he does them (except when Sherlock drags him off before he gets the chance). Catslyn fully plots her stories and has the whole chapter written in her head before she starts. Sherlock is an impulsive fellow who changes his mind as new ideas pop into his head, and while he can predict events that might be coming in the future, he doesn't generally plan that far in advance. Eideann writes by the seat of her pants, making it up as she goes. She knows something about the destination, but the route is ever changing._

_Or, we could just be overthinking this. Hmmmm . . . Anyway, enjoy. And remember, reviews are love._

Chapter 3

Sherlock stuck to John's side as Pepperidge and his team rushed his flatmate down the halls. Sergeant Kendal's team also remained, and Sherlock suspected that some sort of guard would be kept on them both until the police were satisfied that the threat had been neutralized. Marvelous. Not that John didn't need protection, but a bunch of bumbling Yarders – whom he hadn't even worked with before – would just get in Sherlock's way. He had to get this sorted out. He had to get Moriarty's attention off John. Why had the madman chosen John as his final hostage? Why? How could Moriarty have known that John was his friend and that hurting John would hurt Sherlock far more than any direct physical attack on his own person when Sherlock hadn't known that himself? It was infuriating.

Under Pepperidge's guidance, the medical personnel got John transferred into a windowless room that reeked of garlic pesto pizza and had clearly never housed a patient before. Several tables had been cleared away from one wall and shoved toward the center of the room. Mycroft, his mobile pressed to his ear, sat awkwardly in a molded plastic chair, speaking urgently to someone, presumably that brain-damaged assistant of his. Sherlock had no tolerance for someone so indecisive that they couldn't even settle on a name for themselves. She was Anthea more than she was anything else, but whatever her original name had been, the records had been so well hidden by Mycroft's people that even Sherlock couldn't suss it out. He knew she had prosopagnosia, but beyond that he knew very little. It was irritating, and Sherlock was certain Mycroft had hidden her past so thoroughly just to annoy him.

The nurses wheeled John up to the cleared stretch of wall, and reconnected his IV bag to an electronic drip stand that was waiting there, already plugged in. Sherlock backed reluctantly away as the surgeon began to examine his flatmate. John had become restless on the move, his head tossing from side to side, lines of pain appearing on his brow and around his eyes. A muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched as he looked on helplessly. John was hurting, and there was nothing he could do. He despised inaction, but there was no way he could help John, nothing he could do. Minutes passed with a slowness that made him flash back to a recent lecture John had given him on something called The Theory of Relativity. Why John should be so obsessed with useless knowledge about the solar system and advanced physics, or metaphysics or astrophysics or whatever the hell it was, Sherlock simply didn't know. How did any of it help? It certainly didn't help now.

Help. He needed to help. He needed to do _something._ As two sisters wheeled in a portable x-ray machine, Sherlock turned to go in search of Lestrade only to find that Lestrade had come in search of him. "Well?" Sherlock demanded, all but pouncing on the DI in his desperation for news.

"We haven't found them yet. We're still looking, and they're still searching the rest of the building for explosives. How's Dr. Watson?"

"He's fine. He'll be fine," Sherlock said hurriedly, not really wanting to discuss the horrendous details of John's condition. "What do you mean you haven't found them yet? Not even the police are normally this incompetent! How hard is it to find armed snipers in a public hospital? Based on the angles alone, you should be able to locate them."

"We've tried. That's what I'm trying to tell you. They aren't anywhere that makes sense, so if you have any – "

"Shut up," Sherlock commanded, bringing his fisted hands to his temples, clenching his eyes tightly shut and concentrating. He'd once worked a case at the Royal London Hospital, helping to find a missing toddler with a terror of chemotherapy and a love for the exploits of Harry Houdini. Sherlock had gotten to know the facility quite well on that occasion, far better, in fact, than the scores of architects who had redesigned portions of it over the years. An interior map of the hospital sprang open in his mind: patient rooms, halls, crawl spaces, service hatches, maintenance tunnels, air ducts, elevator shafts, supply closets, grills, windows, security cameras, on and on and on. He focused on room 111 and then worked his way outward in an ever widening spiral. Angles, trajectories, lines of sight… there were limited options for where a sniper could secret himself and still have a clear shot at –

"Oh, clever, clever bastard," Sherlock grumbled, running his fingers up into his hair and pulling angrily at the curls. "He is such a clever bastard. I should have seen it sooner."

"What are you talking about? Have you figured out where the snipers are?" Lestrade said, clapping his hands in Sherlock's face until he opened his eyes and met the man's gaze.

"There are no snipers! Can't you see?" Sherlock snapped scathingly. "No, of course you can't," he answered himself, shaking his head despairingly. "If I didn't figure it out, how could you possibly know?"

"Figure out what, Sherlock?" the DI demanded, taking Sherlock by the shoulders and shaking him roughly. "I've got a whole hospital being evacuated here. If there's no threat…"

"Oh, there's a threat, I'm sure. He is a bomber, after all. The threat's just not snipers this time. Those damn glowing dots that started this whole mess, they're not coming from _men_. No _man_ could fit in the only place that they could possibly be coming from."

"Where!"

Sherlock told him, watching in grim amusement as Lestrade's eyes widened and then narrowed in fury when he came to the end of his peroration.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade growled, before yanking his radio from his belt and taking off at a less than dignified run.

Not certain who he was more disgusted with for this fiasco, himself or Moriarty, Sherlock turned to find that his brother was regarding him with a supercilious smile. Mycroft's mobile was no longer pressed to his ear, and his hands were folded neatly on his crossed knees. A single foot tapping the air gently was the only outward sign of anxiety… a sign that Mycroft must have wanted to show or he would never have betrayed his feelings so obviously. Always putting on a show for the public, even if the public consisted only of a handful of AFOs and several very preoccupied medical personnel. Sherlock glowered at him.

"What?" he snarled.

"So, how does it feel?" he asked loftily.

"How does what feel?" Sherlock asked, perplexed and not liking the sensation at all.

"To know you have a friend, how does it feel? Do you feel any different?"

"Shouldn't you be concerning yourself with other things right now, Mycroft? Like the bomb that may carve a large hole in this facility?"

"Everything has been set in motion. Until I'm cleared to leave, there's very little more I can accomplish from here." Mycroft smiled condescendingly. "And you are avoiding the question."

"You announced summarily that John is my friend. I never said that I agreed," Sherlock countered dismissively.

His older brother sneered disdainfully, an expression that took Sherlock instantly back in time, it was so like their late, unlamented father. "Really, little brother, this dissimulation is beneath you and utterly pointless when used against me. I have always been able to read you cover to cover, as you well know." Sherlock bristled, but he didn't dispute the point, and Mycroft went on. "When you saw the danger, your instinct was not to try and save me – despite the fact that I appeared to be the one under imminent threat – but rather to protect Dr. Watson."

"You are perfectly capable of saving yourself. You didn't require my assistance."

Ignoring this disclaimer, Mycroft continued. "Nor did you immediately run off in search of the miscreant as your impetuosity would normally lead you to do."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I couldn't leave John helpless with only _you_ to protect him," Sherlock protested, his gaze darting over the other side of the room where Pepperidge and his assistants still worked over John. They seemed calm, and Sherlock felt somewhat reassured by their matter-of-fact movements.

"Precisely my point," Mycroft agreed, his smile broadening. "Your only thought was to safeguard Dr. Watson. That is the act of a friend."

"Fine. I have… a friend."

"So it would seem," Mycroft sighed, lounging back in the chair and picking absently at a bit of fuzz on the knee of his trousers. "Do try not to lose him."

"No. Absolutely not," Sherlock agreed instantly, a feeling of grim determination taking root deep within him. "Can we drop this subject now? You make me regret asking your advice in the first place."

"Certainly. Tell me more about this Moriarty."

"Whatever for? I'm sure your spies have already told you everything that transpired."

"For the most part, but I'd like your impressions of the man himself based on your final meeting. You have, I believe, a unique perspective that no observer could duplicate accurately."

"What do you want to know?"

"Is he mad?" Mycroft asked offhandedly, as if the question had only just occurred to him. "Your _friends_ at Scotland Yard call him the Mad Bomber, but is he truly mad?"

Sherlock sat down in one of the hideous plastic chairs beside his brother and gave the question serious though for perhaps thirty seconds, far longer than it usually took him to make up his mind on any point. "No. I don't believe he is. He plays at being insane as he played at being gay. It's a part."

Mycroft hummed softly to himself. "Yes. That would agree with my own conjectures based on the initial data. Now, what were your immediate impressions, based on the tasks he set you?"

"Organized, observant, completely amoral… bored," Sherlock supplied instantly.

"And when you finally met him in person?

Sherlock paused for a moment. Then, holding Mycroft's gaze, he said the first two words that came into his mind. "Evil. Brilliant… and evil."

Mycroft sat up straight, all pretence of insouciance gone. "That's a very strong word. Why evil?"

"He enjoys it."

"One could argue that you, too, enjoyed that game, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a tentativeness unusual for him.

Sherlock studied Mycroft for a moment, thoughtfully. As difficult as their relationship could be, his brother at least understood Sherlock's need for mental stimulation – though he'd violently and pointedly disapproved of some of the means that Sherlock had attempted to provide that stimulation. Most substance abuse programs only kept one shut away for a few weeks. Mycroft had locked Sherlock summarily away for six bloody, boring months, and Sherlock had no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft would do it again if he slipped. Still, provided he refrained from using drugs, Mycroft tolerated his other means of seeking stimulation. He understood at a basic level how frustrating it was to be forever surrounded by a world that offered no meaningful tests for his mental acuity, no opportunity for growth, no cognitive frontiers worth pursuing. Mycroft had similar difficulties himself, after all, but the older Holmes somehow found satisfaction in pitting his superior intellect against the world of politics. He ran the government, a task that kept him occupied, even if it did not require the exertion of his full potential. But only one of them could do that, so Sherlock left the world to Mycroft and Mycroft to the world. Let Mycroft run the world; he would solve its puzzles. Politics was too murky a subject for his tastes anyway.

"I enjoyed the intellectual exercise," Sherlock admitted unapologetically. "You know how rare it is for one us to be really… challenged. I think Moriarty has that much in common with us both, but he also enjoyed the acts themselves, the pain he caused. Reveled in it, in fact."

Sherlock's gaze drifted once more to John. The portable x-ray machine had been wheeled to the side, no longer needed. John appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Pepperidge, seeing him watching, gave Sherlock a firm nod of the head and a quick thumbs-up. Sherlock blinked. Why ever –

"Evil, then. Marvelous. We have a modern-day Caligula on our hands, too clever to be good, and too good at being clever to be entirely safe."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this bit of historical drollery. Roman emperors? Why must Mycroft insist on bringing up trivia? Really, it was too much. "What is taking Lestrade so long? I could have fetched the bloody things myself a dozen times over by now."

"Bombs, Sherlock," Mycroft lilted remonstratively. "Remember the potential for things that go boom. The police are no doubt being extra cautious."

"Hmph."

There was a tinny beep, and Mycroft instantly pulled his mobile back out. Standing and stepping away, he said, "Yes?" in an expectant voice. Scowling, Sherlock slumped in the ridiculous chair and waited. Mycroft would be speaking with his minions for ages, John was in no condition to talk with, and there were large men with rifles who had no doubt been ordered to discourage him – forcefully, if necessary – from leaving the room. God, how he hated waiting.

When Lestrade finally returned, he marched straight to Sherlock and the consulting detective leapt eagerly to his feet. "Well?" he prompted.

"They were exactly where you said they'd be," the DI confirmed tiredly. "Three laser scopes mounted on small, remote-controlled tripods, and all tucked neatly behind one of the exterior vents on the hospital wing opposite the window to room 111. No rifles, no snipers, no explosives."

"No explosives at all?"

"Not exactly. The bomb squad has found seven packages, all the size of shoe boxes, all with the word 'BOOM!' written on them in felt tip pen. So far, three of those have been confirmed to be non-explosive, with just enough Semtex in them to get the dogs' attention, but no detonators. What's this bastard's game now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted reluctantly. "Except for text message, he still hasn't tried to contact me." Sherlock began to pace again, finally spinning to a halt and chopping a questioning hand in Lestrade's direction. "You found nothing else?" he demanded.

"No, there was one more thing." Digging beneath his ballistic vest, the DI pulled out an evidence bag. "He left a note with the scopes. It's addressed to you."

Pulse quickening, Sherlock snatched at the bag. Heavy paper, Bohemian, of the same weight and type used in the envelope in which the pink phone had arrived. Presumably the paper and the envelopes were part of a set. He turned the bag around and observed the wax seal holding the letter closed. The wax was a deep, emerald green, made with verdigris. It was thick and of the traditional, non-flexible variety. It had been impressed with a seal that left behind a heraldic eagle, espanie, encompassed by a ring of laurel leaves and surmounted by a JW. Below the laurel leaves, he could clearly read the words _Scandit Sublime Fortis_. "Scandit sublime fortis," he repeated aloud, pondering the man who'd left the missive. Green. Why green? Was it significant?

"It means, 'Strength rules the heights,'" Lestrade supplied unnecessarily. When Sherlock favored him with a surprised glance – he was not aware of Latin being required study for a DI – Lestrade shrugged and said, "One of the doctors translated it for me."

"Ahhh."

When Sherlock made to open the bag, Lestrade forestalled him with a raised hand, snatched two disposable gloves from a dispenser attached to the wall by the door – no doubt there for the medical staff to grab as they left their lunch room in a hurry – and handed them to him. Impatient, he yanked them on and then opened the bag. Taking the letter in careful fingers, he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. The paper itself had no extraneous scent, but the wax did. "The batonnet was bespoke," he said aloud for Lestrade's benefit. "Scented with… something I can't quite identify. I'd get it to a gas chromatograph as soon as possible. The scent used may be significant. The wax was most likely manufactured by J. Herbin. They keep records. He'll not have used his real name, but you may be able to learn something of value."

"You think they made the seal as well?"

"Unlikely, but they may be able to put you on to whoever did."

Lestrade nodded and turned away, speaking quietly but urgently into his radio. Sherlock heard him say, "Donovan," and then tuned the DI out. They would have taken photos of the letter before bringing it to him, but Sherlock took two more with his phone, just to be safe. Then, pulling his penknife, he carefully worked the seal loose and unfolded the letter.

_My Dearest Sherlock,_

_Words cannot express what a delight it was to finally meet you properly. I regret that our little chat ended so abruptly, and I long to speak with you again at more length. As eager as I am to see you, however, I really must insist that you cease meddling in my affairs. The time will come soon enough when we will work together much more closely, but that time is not now._

_If you persist in your attempts to interfere in my enterprises, I will be forced to carry out my penultimate threat. I will burn the heart out of you, Sherlock, my love, and we both know where that heart lies. Johnny boy may have been willing to die for you, but how long do you think his devotion will last in the face of the kind of punishment I can mete out? He will be brutalised, I promise you. There is a man in my employ, singularly lacking in true intelligence, but creative enough where matters of his own art are concerned. He would enjoy spending some quality time with Johnny boy. He positively would._

_I won't stop with your pet, either. The good doctor may be the quickest way to your heart, Sherlock, but he's not the only one. You, my dear, give entirely too many hostages to fortune. How long do you think it would take me to destroy everyone you care about? Sweet old Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Detective Inspector Lestrade, big brother Mycroft, even those homeless minions of yours are all fair game. I could wipe away every human connection you have in less than a day, and I will do it, starting with Johnny boy._

_I'll destroy John Watson, and then, if he's lucky, I'll kill him. If he's not lucky, I just might leave what's left of him alive to suffer. _

_So, truth or dare, Sherlock? Are you going to be a good boy and stay out of Daddy's way, or does your heart pay the price?_

_All my best,_

_James Moriarty_

It took a supreme effort of will on Sherlock's part not to rip the letter to shreds as rage suffused him. How dare Moriarty threaten John? How dare –

"Bloody hell," Lestrade whistled, and the consulting detective looked up to find the DI reading over his shoulder, as it were. "So I've made the mad bomber's hit list, too. Well, that's just thrilling."


End file.
